


Watching You

by CrassulaOvata



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: M/M, POV Second Person, Pining, Spy Is Terrible
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-17
Updated: 2018-01-17
Packaged: 2019-03-06 03:12:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13402212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrassulaOvata/pseuds/CrassulaOvata
Summary: Spy watches, Sniper is oblivious.





	Watching You

**Author's Note:**

> My first official fic! Feel free to point out flaws, mistakes and whatnot, as English isn't my first language. And the commas are all over the place, I know. Been a while since I wrote more than 3 sentences. 
> 
> Anyway, enjoy!

I’m watching you.

I stand quietly in the corner when you crawl through that hatch that you think no one has noticed yet.

The first sign of you getting up here, is the slow disappearance of the thin white cottonthread you placed between hatch and floor yesterday. Your own little primitive warning system. The hatch opens so very slowly and soundlessly as the tip of your gun sticks through.

You’re so paranoid it’s endearing.

You have your rifle over your shoulder, the knife is in your left hand. You always do it the same way, every day. I know from all the days spent watching you from the other side of that hatch, worrying my lip at the thought of how easily that rickety old ladder could break beneath your worn, dusty boots.

You are nearly as quiet as I am. You still breathe too loud sometimes, but I guess I have the advantage of invisibility to teach me the importance of absolute stealth.

You walk as if on glass, staring directly at me without knowing. Your eyes are so blue, it makes my chest lace up for a moment.

As you check the walls and the corners, I simply dance around you, secretly inhaling your scent and imagining what it would feel like to caress your sweaty neck, to taste the salt lingering there.

Content that you are utterly alone, you sit down on your little box by one of the walls. I was there, too, the day you carefully carved a hole into the boards for your rifle to rest on.

Your scent fills the dusty, warm room quickly. I know it by heart. Sweat, gun oil, cigarettes, tea, the tiniest hint of the standard brand of soap we all use.

You know the smell of my cologne, so I stopped wearing it, even though it gave me a warm thrill to watch your face change from concentration to alertness. The way you growled as you spun around, swinging your knife or the butt of your rifle made my heart throb like that of a silly teenager.

It still drives my senses wild when your voice drops to that menacing tone, when you laugh gratingly after a perfect shot or when you miss that perfect shot and curse at yourself.

I notice the temperature rising steadily in the room. My clothes and mask are starting to itch terribly, yet I know that you’ll notice me the moment I move. You’re sweating too. Sweating right through that blue shirt. You grunt something I don’t catch and get up from the box, aggressively removing said shirt and the stained undershirt with it. My heart bursts.

For the next ten minutes, I feel like I am slowly and painfully dying.

The smell of you, the sight of your skin, the sweat trickling down the ridge of your back is killing me. My hands are itching, my mouth is dry, sticky wetness moves slowly down my thigh.

You are so very magnificent and you have no idea how much I want to touch you. What I would give for just one taste.

You make a shot. To judge from the desperate outcry of our Heavy, you’ve killed the doctor.

You stretch that delicious back and take off your hat to run your hand through those dark, sweaty curls. It must be ceasefire soon, I might as well…

I start to move slowly, knowing that my cloak won’t hold – especially not in this humid heat. I draw nearer my price with careful steps, as I feel the cloak flicker. The tiny electrical jolts feel sweet and does absolutely nothing to still the lust raging through my body. So close now.

You’ve noticed me. Your right ear did a little jerk just know, and your body goes rigid. You’re barely breathing.

Here it comes.

One.

Two.

You turn around, quick as a snake, kicking my feet from under me and slamming me against the floor, your knife against my throat. I cannot help the shuddering moan that escapes me just then. Cannot help my utter surrender, when the entire weight of your glorious body presses me down, smothers me.

The moan confuses you, doesn’t it? I try smiling through the thick haze of arousal. Your glasses are sliding down your nose, leaving no shield between me and the skies in your eyes. Your brow furrows, your hot breath seeps into my ruined lungs. Can you feel it? Against your thigh? How much I want you? How devastatingly in lust I am with you?

I disgust you, don’t I? You find it repulsive the way I just lie here under you, doing nothing, surrendering fully to you and the blade of your knife as you feel my erection growing harder. I can almost smell the bile building in your bobbing throat – see the outrage taking over your features. You would love to press that knife down right now, wouldn’t you? Just slide it through my throat and watch with disdain how I bleed to death right here on this filthy floor. It’s so easy to do. It really doesn’t take as much strength as one should think.

Something akin to a storm glace over your eyes, and for a breathless, timeless moment, everything is calm and peaceful. Your exhales fuel my inhales. Our hearts thunder in tune. My sweat mingles with yours until we share the same scent.

It’s perfection and I know it won’t last. You are going to kill me and crawl off of my body, wipe your knife in your pants and go about the rest of this scorching hot day as if nothing happened. You will eat your supper, have your shower, play your card games with the Engineer and the Demoman and go to your little campervan when the clock reaches ten. You will see nothing special in this moment we are sharing. You won’t remember every detail of my face, every beat of my heart. You will forget and be even more careful the next time you pick out a nest.

“Go ahead, Monsieur,” I hear myself croak, closing my eyes and pointing my chin upwards, offering myself absolutely freely. I want to add more to my defeat. A cliché. A truism. Something deeply stupid and sentimental, but my brain can think of nothing but the pounding between my thighs – a pounding that is cautiously answered by a long, dragging motion of your hips.

My heart. My poor, fragile heart bursts for the second time that day, as you lean into me, your wonderful, warm face burying itself in the crook of my neck. You nuzzle and burrow until you find skin beneath the balaclava and open your hot, wet mouth to taste me.

I toss the last shred of sense to the winds and moan freely into the warm, dusty air. It’s a tremendous relief and despite myself, I feel my eyes watering, brimming over with tears. You don’t notice. You seem so very caught up in mouthing what little stretch of skin you have access to and grinding your hips against mine. I hadn’t taken you for a silent lover. Perhaps you’re holding back? No need for that, darling. We are all alone up here. No one will hear…No one will ever know about this.

Your knife presses through the fabric of my mask, when your breath thickens and you start grunting throatily like some wild animal in time with your hips rocking against me. I feel so powerless and small. The sound of my desperate voice mixed with yours is music to me.

You shudder violently and do your best not to bite through my skin when you find your release. That magnificent weight of muscles sag and relax on top of me, making it even harder to breathe.

I blink away the tears in my eyes, gathering all my thoughts on the feeling of wetness between us – the smell of us.

You lean up on one elbow and look at me. The shame and confusion suits you perfectly. I want to stroke your stubbled chin and chapped lips, tell you that everything is alright.

The knife slides effortlessly through my flesh, cuts my jugular veins before severing the thyroid cartilage, the trachea. It’s such a beautiful, clean cut, and I would praise you if I could speak. My breath hisses fruitlessly, mechanically through the slit, pulling blood through the trachea and drowning me effectively one convulsion at the time. I will of course lose conscience before this happens. The brain needs oxygen after all.

The last thing I see is the arch of your naked back as you stand up, the sunlit dust whirling around you, sticking to your sweat-slicked body. Your hand is absently wiping the blade of your knife in your pants as you watch me die – that pitiful look of shame still on your face.

“Five minutes left of the misson!”

The grating voice of the Announcer booms across the battlefield and stirs me out of my little daydream.

You’re still sitting on your crate, your back to me, sweating through your shirt and chainsmoking. I need a cigarette so bad.

I flip out my knife silently and do short work of the distance between us, jamming the blade into your back. You didn’t even suspect me coming. It’s so obvious that this time was a complete surprise.

I can almost smell the short burst of adrenaline on you as you tumble over, grabbing fruitlessly for your knife before simply…dying.

One must never underestimate the beauty of a good, efficient kill. I enjoy toying with my victim as much as anyone, but a swift ending has its own tangible beauty. It gives me a sense of mercy and accomplishment.

The pinnacle of control.

I pick up the cigarette you dropped. It’s the horrible brand the company provides us with, but I stick it between my lips none the less, enjoying the feeling of the damp filter, soaked with your spit and sweat.

I kneel down, wiping my knife in your shirt. You look peaceful in spite of everything. I take off my right hand glove and touch your cheek. My fingers are so pale and marble-like against your sunburnt skin. It won’t be long until Respawn picks you up. I ponder staying here. Wait for you and let you have your revenge.

I slide my fingers through your hair, lean down and kiss the side of your mouth before I make my escape into the burning afternoon sun. Next time, my love.

Perhaps next time I will not kill you quite as fast.


End file.
